


propositional

by xcixproof (lightweightix)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Female My Unit | Byleth, Masturbation, No betas we die like Glenn, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, also the timeline on this is hazy as fuck Do Not Sue Me, anyway I'm sorry about all of this, can I be real this is mostly banter, gratuitous usage of commas, master tacticians? more like disaster tacticians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightweightix/pseuds/xcixproof
Summary: “A team of two highly capable, extremely attractive individuals is much more efficient than consulting a roundtable of dead weight.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Of course, a certain degree of professionalism is necessary to maintain that efficiency.”“Oneextremely attractive individual,” she corrects, tossing her hair over a shoulder as if she means herself.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 53
Kudos: 154





	propositional

**Author's Note:**

> literally the first time in my life that I have ever tried to write smut, or even fade-to-black
> 
> get on the Disaster Train, children. we are headed to Ruin, population us

Byleth emerges from the training grounds, careful not to let the heavy doors slam behind her. She’s not wholly sure what time it is, but the darkness of the sky is complete, no trace of sunset lingering. The night shift of guards is likely active by now, and the rest of the monastery is probably asleep. Well, most of the monastery.

She debates going back to her quarters to get a change of clothes before washing up, but given how late it is and whom she’s spent her day avoiding for reasons she refuses to confront, the idea is less than appealing.

 _Whatever. I’ll wear the same clothes out_ , she thinks tiredly, and with that in mind, she drags herself up the steps to the bathhouse, already working to divest herself of her coat and armour. Cool night air hits her neck, and she shivers as she fetches a pail of water from the well outside before stepping into the building.

The showers are silent, she notices, pulling off her boots and hanging her coat on one of many hooks in the entrance hall. Now barefoot, she pads through a short hall and then onto the bathing chamber’s tiled floors. Her suspicions are confirmed—no one else is present. Further investigation reveals that the air in the sauna has lost most of its humidity—it’s been a while since anyone has been in here, and Byleth wonders how long she’d really spent training. Poking her head into the linked rooms, she sees the rinsing pools abandoned, their surfaces perfectly undisturbed.

 _Perhaps I have stayed up too late_ , she muses. Her sleep will probably be cut short tonight, but hell if she goes to sleep this dirty, plastered in sweat and dust. Rarely has she gotten the chance to bathe in recent times, and even rarer is the luxury of bathing alone.

Byleth retreats back to the sauna chamber, stoking the embers in the stove until they glow a lively orange again, and feeds them with fresh logs before closing the stove’s door, letting the smoke filter through an upright pipe to the outdoors instead of into the room.

Leaving the large stones lying amongst the crackling firewood to reheat, she checks for other patrons again to confirm her solitude, then begins to strip, grimacing at the feeling of fabric peeling from her skin, one stuck to the other with exertion. She folds her clothes into a haphazard pile before returning to the entrance hall, and sets them on a vast shelf by her coat. It’s here that the sauna’s communal modesty garments sit, all plain but clean linens, loose and shapeless to accommodate a wide range of physiques. She takes some pleasure in ignoring them completely, selecting only a washcloth and towel, and then rummages in a nearby supply closet for the simple soaps they keep stocked for the refugees who come to the monastery, many made nearly destitute by the war. The small bar she comes up with is nothing more than practical, and is a far cry from the delicately perfumed concoctions gifted to her by Mercedes and Annette. The luxury is missed, but she’s not trekking to her room right now.

Byleth takes her time showering, meticulously scrubbing herself clean and trying not to think about how much she wishes someone else’s hands were on her. The thought is hard to suppress, but the flow of hot water over her body helps ease her grating loneliness. A quarter of an hour passes that way, and she decides that the steaming stones should be heated through by now, turning off the tap of her shower and wringing out her hair. She pauses on her way out to squeeze the excess water from her washcloth, then deposits it into a bin to be laundered, grabbing her larger towel and walking into the sauna, and hangs it on the nearest rack before heading to fetch her heat source. Picking up the tongs by the stove and opening the door to the fire, she carefully removes the rocks within one by one, placing them on a deep tray fixed to a table nearby. She closes the stove door and sets aside the tongs, reaching for the bucket of well water she’d brought in and hefting it up.

Steam billows from the rocks as she pours water over them, careful not to burn herself on the scalding heat of the resulting clouds, and she sets the bucket down again, stepping back and rolling her shoulders. The hiss and gurgle of the water’s rapid boil is familiar company and a welcome sound. She inhales deeply, then sighs, reaching a hand over her left shoulder to work out some of the tension there before switching and doing the same for the other. Hands still moving, now easing out the knots in her neck, she goes to sit on the bench, sitting down and exhaling as bare skin meets the seat.

Byleth spends a few moments doing this, absentmindedly kneading at her sore body and tired muscles. Eventually, her hand comes to rest at the apex of her thighs, and she hesitates for a moment before easing her legs open a fraction, idly beginning to stroke along her folds before parting them a little and moving up to her clit. She hums quietly, already feeling a tentative arousal licking up her skin, waking up from the recesses of her mind where she’d banished it earlier.

She closes her eyes, wondering if she’ll stop here or give in. One of her best friends is almost definitely waiting in her room, she knows, holding out for her opinion on whatever scheme he’s concocted for their next trials, and she feels some guilt in the midst of the heat crawling up her body, knowing that she’s delaying his bedtime the longer that she stays here. The habit they’ve developed of meeting alone and deep into the night to discuss strategy often keeps them awake for ages before both agree to retire—not to mention that it’s slowly driving her mad—and the later they start, the later they’ll end.

Goddess, will she even be able to focus on anything he says in this state?

Increasingly, the answer seems to be no, and that excuse is enough for her to submit to her frustrations, pent-up and unreleased even after an hour—hours, more likely—of impromptu training.

If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do her best to get it out of her system. Byleth shifts, momentarily pulling her hand away from her crotch and shaking out her hair before deciding on a course of action.

Pulling up her legs, she moves to rest on all fours on the bench, and drops her forehead to the hard and damp wood of the bench, letting the pressure anchor her distracted mind. She wouldn’t normally set up this way, all balancing act on knees and shins and elbows and forearms, but more than wanting to get off, she’s spent her entire day wanting to be fucked, and this is how she’s craved it, bent over and head low.

There’s some inherent risk in positioning herself like this in a public facility. The hour seems late enough that an intrusion would be highly unlikely, but she can’t deny that war makes for sleepless nights, and she’d be hard-pressed to move fast enough to hide what she’d been doing if someone did walk in.

 _...Fuck it._ She’ll just have to keep an ear out and work quickly, then. Byleth runs her fingers back, skimming them down her torso before pushing them into her entrance and generously coating them with the slick already gathering there. Just as fast as she forms her resolve, it begins to unravel as she starts to stroke herself in earnest, running her fingers over her clit and back again, quickly building up a rhythm. She bites on her tongue, but the feeling of her ass hoisted up in the air reminds her how much she wishes someone was there to meet it, making for reddened cheeks and the vulgar slap of skin on skin, and a small whine escapes her. Her skin sings with the knowledge of who _someone_ is, but she tamps the name down.

She won’t be able to look at him if she lets it free, and it’d be a hell of a time trying to avoid the person likely sitting in her living quarters at this very moment.

 _Don’t think about it_ , she chants to herself. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about_ — It’s easier said than done, and she tries to redirect her fraying focus to listening for any nearing footsteps, or the opening of a door.

Her breathing becomes more ragged as she roughly drags her left hand over her breasts, settling on her right nipple and tweaking it between her fingers. She squeaks and then settles into a quiet, drawn-out moan, feeling another piece of her restraint slip away. She rolls her nipple again, squeezing it harder, and the intensity of the sensation dissolves the last of her will to stay quiet. She pushes her face further down into the bench and groans, relishing in the force of it. Picking up the pace of her right hand, still working furiously between her folds, she can’t help but wish the sparks dancing across her skin were accompanied by something more substantial. The aching emptiness in her core makes her back arch, rear pushing higher in invitation to a cock that isn’t there. She can feel the pulse of her blood in her face and between her legs, and all she can focus on is how much she _wants_.

Byleth rocks back on her hand— _goddess, why is it only her hand_ —and begins to knead at her chest roughly, chasing an elusive pleasure. She bites down on her lip before tossing her head back, imagining that—that _someone_ is pulling her hair, rutting into her from behind. She‘s careful not to put a face to the fantasy, doing her best to picture phantom hands and phantom hips meeting hers, nebulous and vague in an entirely dissatisfying way.

She squeezes her eyes shut, face twisting as she pants. The pressure on her knees and shins and elbows becomes more uncomfortable the longer they support her weight.

The heat of the sauna is starting to get to her, and the warm fog in the room feels oppressive. She knows that she isn’t very quiet anymore, gasping and letting out soft cries as she works herself into a frenzy. Sweat is gathering beneath her, making everything slippery, and her choked-off moans are lost in the steam as she begins to tense up.

Unbidden, Claude’s face flashes across her mind. In her mind’s eye, she sees him flushed and naked, furiously working his shaft and calling for her. Suddenly, it’s his hands pulling on her hair and squeezing her tits, his body leaning over hers and his thrusts setting a punishing pace, and it’s that picture that undoes her.

She goes taut and chokes out a needy “C— _aah_ —!”

She clenches tightly around nothing, swearing brokenly as she comes, and her body desperately tries to squeeze something that isn’t there. She’s shaky now, and her fingers stutter and slow over her clit as heady pleasure crests and crashes over her in waves, finally breaking her out of her single-minded chase for release.

Once the tremors have run their course, Byleth stills, and she breathes shallowly. She can feel the high in her body diminishing, replaced by some potent cocktail of fear-embarrassment-shame.

“Shit,” she says thickly, struggling to forget her imaginary Claude. The image of him—pretty and ruddied and _fuckable_ —feels branded into her brain, searingly hot and terrifyingly permanent, and she knows that she’s just broken something, whatever it may be.

She moves to sit upright, aftershocks shooting through her cunt and down her legs, ending in the arches of her feet. Byleth hugs her middle loosely, trying to ignore her lingering dissatisfaction. Her climax hadn’t solved her craving to be filled, and she reluctantly moves to the next room in search of a bath. The relative cold of the waters will clear her mind, hopefully.

* * *

They do not clear her mind. Not of the things plaguing her the most, anyway.

The fog of arousal still lurks on the edges of her consciousness, waiting to be provoked again, though Byleth makes a valiant effort to circumnavigate its lure as she lifts herself from the rinsing pool. She’d only sat there for about three minutes before realizing that it was a lost cause, no matter how many times she dunked her head underwater. She does her best to ignore the lingering sensitivity between her legs and the sparks that come from the simple friction of her thighs moving together as she walks to retrieve her clothes. Goddess, she’s going to be reduced to a useless mess of frustration if she can’t pull herself together.

When Byleth takes her clothes from the shelf, the filth on them gives her pause. Had they really been this dirty when she took them off? She goes through the articles one by one, examining her shirt and trousers and underclothes, and truly everything is more soiled than she’s willing to tolerate, especially after a long-delayed shower.

“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters, and reluctantly gathers everything washable into a pile that she stacks her armour onto, before wrapping everything into her coat and tying the sleeves together to form a single bundle. She pulls on her boots and wraps her towel around herself, grabbing her coat and glancing out the door to check for passing guards before walking out into the chill. She’s certain she looks like an idiot, clad in armoured shoes and a towel, and silently prays that Claude was too tired today to pay her a visit.

Her apprehension grows exponentially in the short minute it takes to get to her door, and she stands outside for a moment, listening intently. She hears nothing at first, then has her hopes dashed as she catches the faint rustle of paper from within. Part of her wants it to be an assassin, because, even in this state, she makes for a decent combatant, well-versed in unarmed technique—she knows for a fact that she’s a hell of a bar brawler.

She’s probably not that lucky, though. She hesitates for a moment longer, and then knocks lightly, knuckles rapping thrice against the wood.

“It’s me,” she calls quietly, mindful of the way her voice echoes around the empty courtyard. She has mere seconds to arrange her face as neutrally as she can manage, and hopefully into an expression that isn’t _I-came-to-the-thought-of-you-ten-minutes-ago_ , before her door opens a crack, Claude already moving back in to sit without sparing her a glance. Byleth fidgets for a moment, then shudders as the wind blows harder on her exposed skin, and pushes her door open wider to step through.

Claude has taken up her entire desk with a map of Fódlan, the corners held down by several books whose topics range from tactics to history at a brief glance. Lying atop the map is an open envelope, and Claude appears to be holding a letter. Looking more intently at the wax seal over the envelope, it seems to be from House Daphnel, though it’s harder to tell with the way the seal was broken and in the relatively low candlelight of her room.

“Is that from Judith?” she asks, furrowing her brow, and Claude hums in confirmation as his eyes scan over the page. Byleth absentmindedly sets down her coat and laundry, and the movement in his peripheral finally catches his attention. His gaze flicks up for a moment, and then he freezes, eyes widening a fraction.

Byleth winces, brought back to earth from the temporary distraction of political goings-on, and shifts her weight awkwardly, combing through her half-coherent thoughts for something to say. There’s a heavy pause.

“Not that I’m—” Claude stops short, mouth shutting with a click.

“Not that you’re...?” Byleth prompts, busying herself with properly closing the door behind her so that she won’t have to meet his eyes for a few seconds longer.

“Nothing,” he says hastily. “Well, Teach, I can’t say I’m not flattered, but this is practically a war council. Dress for the station, you know?”

Byleth steels herself before she turns to face him again. “A two-person council?” she asks dryly.

“Naturally,” he says easily. “A team of two highly capable, extremely attractive individuals is much more efficient than consulting a roundtable of dead weight.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Of course, a certain degree of professionalism is necessary to maintain that efficiency.”

“ _One_ extremely attractive individual,” she corrects, tossing her hair over a shoulder as if she means herself.

Claude is pouting. “Way to hit me where it hurts, By.” She’s not strong enough for this. “You really think I could lead the Alliance if I didn’t have such a pretty face?”

 _Yes._ It scares her, the amount of faith she has in him. 

“You’re right,” Byleth sighs. “We should dispose of you entirely. There must be some pauper or another whose looks outpace yours. If we installed them as Duke, I’m sure we could accomplish perfect unity between the houses within the day.”

“Ah, but then where would you be?” Claude leans back, balancing on the hind legs of her chair. His eyes are locked on the ceiling. “Ignoring that you’d be short my unmatched political acumen and impeccable wit, and, frankly, my flawless sense of humour—”

“I would miss your humility the most,” she deadpans.

“—do you have any idea what would happen?” he continues, louder. “Perfect unity at the roundtable? Count Gloucester being _helpful_? Fódlan would be brought to its knees. The allowance of such a miracle would surely come at some terrible cost. The gods would smite us where we stood.”

He glances at her and breaks into an impish smile, and she belatedly realizes that he’s only mirroring her expression. Smiles come so easily to her in his company that she doesn’t always notice them until a few minutes have gone by, and she does her best to school her face into something less...transparent.

 _Less lovesick_ , a traitorous part of her mind whispers. Her stomach lurches. “I don’t know. Perhaps he would be more amenable to your ideas if you caught him off guard some way.”

“And how would I do that?” He scrubs a hand over his chin as if in thought—to his credit, it’s a convincing picture—and then snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up. “Perhaps I could show up half-nude, wearing nothing but my shoes and a towel.”

Byleth’s hands twist together tighter. Her face feels like it’s caught fire, and she can only hope that it’s disguised by the candlelight. “It hardly seems to have caught _you_ off guard.”

“What you’re forgetting is that I don’t have a stick up my ass,” he says. “Also, several assassins have had the courtesy of coming to pay me their respects while I was, regrettably, asleep,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. 

“You lack his sense of propriety,” she amends. “‘Unmatched political acumen’ indeed. You couldn’t spare the effort for a more _delicate_ phrasing?”

“Absolutely not,” he says immediately. “Besides, you’re not really in a position to correct my manners, Teach. I mean, walking in at this hour, nearly undressed—”

“This is _my_ room,” she says, face burning.

“That it is, my friend. And to think, a professor inviting her darlingest and most favourite pupil to her quarters so late into the night, and then arriving in a state worthy of _scandal_ —”

“It’s only scandal if word gets out.” Byleth hopes her glare masks her embarrassment. “Oh, _Duke Riegan_ , would you tarnish a woman’s reputation so easily?”

“Any woman’s? Doubtful. Yours? I argue that you would make an attempt on my life if I tried.”

“‘An attempt,’” she echoes. “You’re hauling ass to the training grounds tomorrow, and I’m going to school you in front of every member of the standing army—”

“That’s unnecessary—”

“—and every resident of the monastery, man, woman, and child—”

“Now, Teach—“

“—not to mention your generals and dearest friends—”

“Okay, but—”

“I’ll invite them personally,” she says. “Each will have a summons in hand, gilded and individually addressed, and the inscription, completed in calligraphy, will read—”

“This is all hypothetical,” Claude interrupts, “because I could never tarnish your _sterling_ reputation, Teach. How could I? Nakedness aside, is this not a perfectly chaste encounter?”

“That’s a very big aside,” she says, instead of something more intelligent, like agreement.

“And yet,” Claude says loftily, arms stretched wide. “And yet. Have I been anything but a gentleman, and you a lady?”

“Don’t turn this on me,” she says accusingly. “You were the one to suggest this might be anything but.” _If only that were the case._ Goddess, she needs him to leave her room before she says anything truly stupid.

“Get out,” she says suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Claude says, blinking rapidly.

“Get out.”

“You don’t want to talk strategy like this?” he asks, feigning confusion. She can see his amusement, though, hiding in the twinkle of his eyes.

“I’m done with your shit, Riegan. You’re banished until I retrieve your wisecracking ass.” 

“But it’s so cold outside! C’mon, By,” he wheedles, now openly wearing a shit-eating grin. She knows that he’ll go out to wait without any real fight, but she also knows that he’s noticed how easy it is to get under her skin in her current state— _goddess, if only he knew why_ —and he’s going to take advantage of it for as long as possible.

A petty resentment pokes at her. If he’s playing to fluster, she’s more than willing to answer.

She bends down to remove her boots, then moves at last from her awkward hover near the door to her drawers, and pulls out one of her sleeping shifts, then a set of underwear, tossing the pieces one by one onto her bed. In the corner of her eye, she can see him register what he’s looking at, and he stiffens, straightening out of his casual lounge.

Her feet make little sound as she walks over carpet to the space between her bed and the chair Claude currently occupies. He’s been tracking her movements with a silent intensity, and his head is tilted over his shoulder now to keep an eye on her.

“Face forward,” she commands. The sound of her voice seems to break whatever spell has befallen him, and he looks at her with curiosity before obliging.

“Might I ask why?” he teases.

Byleth’s eyes narrow at the lightness of his tone. The sheer amount of control he has over her, and how little she has over him, infuriates her. He renders her stupid, and he doesn’t even know it.

She pauses for a moment before the desire to _win_ this, whatever _this_ is, goads her on, and she unwinds her towel. The air on her still-damp skin makes her hair stand on end. She leans forward, holding the towel—and all of its implications—out in front of Claude, then leans down to speak by his ear. Distantly, she wonders about the cologne that still lingers on his collar.

“Well,” she says evenly, “you’ve raised some reasonable concerns about how cold it is tonight, and far be it from me to sentence you outside under the circumstances. That said, you’ve also raised some very reasonable concerns about propriety, so I’ve thought of a compromise: you can stay here, where it’s warm, provided that you allow me to change. In other words, face forward.”

“Ah,” Claude says after a moment. Byleth revels in his apparent speechlessness, feeling victory for the briefest second before she registers the heat that radiates from his neck; when she examines him, she realizes that he’s gone very still and very red.

 _Oh._ Guilt washes over her in frigid waves. She’s making him uncomfortable. Of course she is. Ailell, she’d _wanted_ to make him uncomfortable. For what? So she could appease some misplaced sense of pride? Because she didn’t like someone else having the upper hand?

 _What are you_ doing _? This is your best friend, not a fucking_ duel _._

Cursing silently, she withdraws her arm, tightly wrapping herself in the towel again, and steps around into Claude’s field of view. Colour sits high in his cheeks as he avoids her gaze.

“I’m sorry. I—Claude, I am...so sorry. That wasn’t—“ She inhales deeply, and he chances a glance at her. Her chest constricts. _Why does he have to be so pretty?_

Her imaginary Claude, heartbreakingly beautiful and _not real_ flashes through her mind again, and she is flooded with shame. That Claude, who wants for her and only her, is not the one in front of her, and it’s unfair of her to treat him as such. The one in front of her is her dearest and most trusted ally, and deserves her kindness, not her—her lust, for fuck’s sake.

“That wasn't appropriate. I've made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry,” she repeats, grimacing. She ducks her head, staring at her bare feet, and then stiffens a moment later when she is enveloped in a hug. Claude is careful not to hold her too tightly, keeping some distance between them, but it’s warm nonetheless, and it chases away some of her distress. She relaxes minutely.

“No harm done, my friend,” he promises, and punctuates the end of his sentence with a kiss pressed into her hair. Byleth laughs breathily, and breaks his embrace.

“Promise?” she says, searching his face. “I don’t want you to lie to make me feel better.”

“Well, just so you know, I would gladly lie to make you feel better.” The sincerity in his words catches her off guard. She can feel it shoot straight into some delicate chamber of her heart before she can stop it. “But no, I’m telling the truth.” He smiles slightly, then holds a hand over his heart, eyes on hers as he says, “Deer’s honour.”

“Deer’s honour,” she says, amused. “I’m not sure anything could be more binding.”

Claude sighs. “Well, if Her Holiness so demands it, I could swear myself to her with a vow more powerful yet.” With a flourish, he pulls his hand away from his chest and offers his pinkie to her.

Byleth looks at it uncomprehendingly. “And this is...?”

“Teach!” he says, affronted. “This is only the most impressive pact one can make. We must link pinkies, and then will forevermore be bound to uphold our word.”

“You are absolutely messing with me,” she tries.

He scoffs. “That is by far the most uncultured thing I’ve heard all week. This is sacred tradition, passed from generation to generation for its unspeakably powerful magic.” He wiggles his pinkie expectantly.

Byleth lifts a pinkie, linking it with his. It’s silly, but the tiny point of contact makes her feel warm.

“Not so hard, was it?” He beams at her. “And with that, I, Claude von Riegan, promise that I am not lying to you, Byleth Eisner, and that no harm was done by the latter party to the former on this seventh eve of the Lone Moon.”

He’s trying to lift her spirits, and she lets him, smiling back. She trusts him more than anyone else, and she trusts his word that she hasn’t hurt him. The swell of gratitude she feels evaporates the rest of her guilt, and she allows herself a moment to admire him—hers or not, he is lovely, in every possible sense of the word.

“I am very lucky to have you in my life,” she murmurs, and then stands on her toes to press her lips to his cheek, hoping that the gesture is platonic enough to pass muster. It still makes her pulse race. Standing flat on her feet again, she lets go of his hand.

“Now, get out of my room.” She prods Claude in the shoulder, though there’s no real force behind it. He winks at her and puts his hands up, stepping away to lace up his shoes before he exits, saluting her on the way out.

Byleth dresses quickly and unravels her coat, dropping her laundry into a basket before hanging up her coat and laying out her armour nearby, the plates neatly stacked to be donned at a moment’s notice. Lastly, she brushes her fingers over Judith’s letter, and resolves to do better. A war demands their full attentions, and she needs to shelve her own messy emotions.

“You’re going to have to moon after him on your own time,” she whispers. The words hang in the air for a second, and then she goes to let Claude back in.

**Author's Note:**

> did Claude lean out of that hug because he had a hard-on? maybe

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] propositional](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24680563) by [RiceArchbishop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiceArchbishop/pseuds/RiceArchbishop)




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